Authors: Eleanor Hawken
The Grey Girl (19 page)
There was something beneath it. A square of leather, bound by string.
With shaking hands, I reached into the floor and picked it up. It was a book of some kind.
My bloody hands picked at the string until it fell away from the book.
The first page fell open.
It was a diary.
It's been a whole week since Tilly died. I haven't been able to write in my diary these last seven days. I'm haunted by what we did. But now I feel as though the time has come for me to document our evil, evil deeds.
Last Friday night we waited until the school had fallen silent and the moon was high in the night sky. Lavinia, Margot, Sybil and I put on our heavy winter cloaks and carried the candles, matches and chalk up the stairs to the attic floor. Moonlight flooded in through the skylight and we tried our best to hide in the shadows as we climbed the stairs. We tiptoed along the narrow attic corridor like mice, afraid that we would wake one of the prefects and find ourselves expelled. We made it to Tilly's room â the room at the end of the hall â without being caught. Looking back on it now, I wish we had been caught. I'd rather be expelled a hundred times over than have to live with what I did next.
Tilly let us into her room. Her face was etched with excitement and she was wearing her winter cloak, as we'd told her to do. She had pushed her bed and chest of drawers to the side of the room so there was enough space on the floor to draw the pentagram.
Margot was the one to draw it. She dragged the chalk along the floorboards, marking out the five-pointed star. Sybil lit the candles and placed them on the five points.
The five of us held hands, the pentagram and the candles in the centre of us. Tilly joined in as we chanted in unison, âGoddess, we serve you, Goddess, hear our prayers.'
We released each other's hands.
âIs that it?' Tilly asked. âAm I initiated?'
âNo,' I said to her. âCome here.'
Tilly walked towards me, still unafraid and excited for what was to come. Lavinia passed me her pentagram necklace and I took it with shaking fingers. I knelt down and held it over the flickering flame of the candle. âPull up your right sleeve,' I instructed, staring into the flame. I couldn't bring myself to look at Tilly. I couldn't bear to see the excitement in her face. Tilly paused for a moment before doing as I said.
I rose to my feet and pressed down the scalding hot necklace into her flesh. âGoddess of the moon, we are your children.' Tilly whimpered and tried to pull away but Lavinia moved in and held her still.
âWe all have one,' she whispered in Tilly's ear.
As Tilly stepped back and fought back the tears, the four of us rolled up our sleeves to prove that we did all have the mark upon us. Binding us to one another, to the Goddess, to the Rituals.
âIs that it?' Tilly sobbed.
I shook my head. âNow I need to give you the Kiss of Death.'
That was the moment that Tilly's eyes widened and she realised that this was more than just a game. âWe stop your heart and then bring you back,' Lavinia said wickedly.
âBut I have a weak heart,' Tilly protested. âIf you stop it, it won't start again.'
I wish we had listened to her.
âHold her down,' Lavinia whispered.
Margot took one arm and Sybil took the other, Lavinia chanted to the Goddess as I put one hand over Tilly's heart and my other hand over that. Tilly tried to scream but Lavinia quickly dived forwards and put her hand over Tilly's mouth. âDo it!' Lavinia hissed at me. So I pressed against Tilly's heart, my arms straightened and my weight bearing down into her. I felt the air wheeze out of her chest and watched as her eyes bulged wide. Tilly tried in vain to struggle. âHold her down!' commanded Lavinia. The others held her down as I continued to press, press, press down upon her small, weakened heart. Soon Tilly stopped struggling and fell limp. I moved my lips towards hers. âThe Kiss of Death,' I whispered.
I've seen the Kiss of Death done three times before. I did it to Lavinia, and Margot and Sybil did it to one another. Before, the effect was always the same â after the briefest of blackouts you gasp back to life. But Tilly didn't gasp, she didn't come back to life. She lay on the ground, wheezing her last breaths. We panicked. âBlow out the candles, scrub the chalk off the floor.'
We tried to revive her but it wouldn't work. It was me who had the idea of carrying her downstairs and outside. She was light and weighed next to nothing. No one stirred as we took her frail little body out into the moonlight, towards the river.
The Lady of Shalott
was tied up at the bank, like always. We arranged her body in the boat and untied it from the bank, and pushed the boat out onto the river. As the boat floated away we ran back into the house. I lay in bed that night imagining a different scene. I imagined Tilly escaping, running away from us in the night. Escaping on the boat and floating away down the river.
They found her body the next morning. The doctor said that Tilly died in the boat. She was still alive when we carried her down there and watched her float away. We could have saved her, maybe. When she was found her lips were blue, her blood frozen, just like the poem. â
Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly.
'
They assumed she had put herself in the boat and simply lay down and died. Everyone knew she was obsessed with the poem and had no hope of ever living a normal life.
This is the last diary entry I shall ever write. It is my confession. I shall never do the Rituals again. I don't deserve the blessings of the Goddess, none of us do. I'm going to hide this diary somewhere no one will ever find it, and if they do find it I hope that it is after I am gone. I hope to take this secret to the grave.
I'm sorry I wasn't a friend to you, Tilly. I'm sorry I didn't save you. And I'm sorry that I will never be brave enough to tell the truth about how you died. I hope your soul finds a peace in death that you never had in life. The grey girl, a beautiful Moonchild who was always cursed to live a half life.
â
God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott
.'
I will never write again,
Annabel
A ghost isn't just a spirit that haunts a building. It's an idea, or a memory, that haunts people too. A ghost is something that follows you through your life and won't let you rest, won't allow you to let go. These sorts of ghosts you wear like shadows, and some people take them to the grave.
Annabel took a ghost to her grave. She took a terrible secret too. She had known the truth about why Tilly had died; she could have saved her if she had wanted to. But that wasn't what happened. Tilly had died at her hands and Annabel had let that secret haunt her to the grave. That secret bound Tilly to Dudley Hall, and it bound Annabel to Dudley-on-Water until she died. A secret so terrible it seeped down through the generations, binding her daughters Fiona and Nell to the awful story too.
The Dudley Hall attic has now been gutted. The floorboards ripped up, the walls steamed and painted new shades of white. The windows have been replaced and the fireplaces swept. New beds, wardrobes and tables have been ordered, and a new bathroom is being put in at the beginning of each corridor. People have been up in the attic, coming and going, for weeks now. No one has ever seen the grey girl again. Some of the workmen reported a coldness in the last room on the right, but that's the only trace of her left.
Aunt Meredith hopes to move up into the attic soon, and she'll use the bedrooms on the second floor for more guests. Richard's coming back less and less, and I don't think that's a bad thing. I don't think Aunt Meredith sees it as a bad thing either. He doesn't seem interested in her or the house. I secretly hope that one day he'll never come back, and he'll leave Aunt Meredith and Toby to live their lives at Dudley Hall in peace.
Toby came out of hospital a few days after we held the seance in the attic. The first few days he was very quiet, but he was soon back to his old self. The school term started and Toby goes to the local school during the day and reads detective novels whenever he gets the chance.
The day after we had found the diary in the attic, Frankie went home and Nell and Katie cleaned the house when the murder mystery guests left. Every light bulb in the house had blown whilst we were holding the seance. Apparently the bulbs downstairs blew at the exact moment the murderer was revealed at the party, and the guests thought it was all part of the show. Aunt Meredith said the feedback she'd had from some of the guests that weekend was brilliant â and it was one of the best murder mysteries Dudley Hall has ever held. I hope she means that. I enjoyed writing
The Ghost of Dudley Hall
. I'd like to write another story like that one day. Although this time maybe I'll write about something else I know well â I'll write about hope and courage and facing up to your greatest fears.
The day after the guests had gone Nate and I went to Annabel's grave.
We lay flowers by her headstone and set fire to the diary right there in the graveyard. We watched as the wind swept away the ashes, whisking them aloft on the breeze. âNow you can both be at peace,' I whispered into the wind. âAnd everyone bound to this story can be free.'
âI'm so pleased you came here, Suzy,' Nate said to me, as we watched the last of the ashes float away on the wind. âNot just because of all this. Not just because maybe now, after all these years, my mum and Nell will finally be free. I'm glad I met you,' he said. It was the first time I'd ever seen Nate seem shy.
I turned towards him and flashed him my best grin. âI'm glad I met you too.'
âI love the way you see the world,' he said, his hazel eyes gazing down on me. â
A dreamer who sees the dawn before the rest of the world
.'
âNow who's been reading Oscar Wilde?' I smiled.
He leant forward and pressed his lips against mine. It felt like fireworks had erupted inside me, and I tried not to smile with happiness as Nate deepened his kiss. I kissed him back and moved closer, putting my hands against his T-shirt and feeling the beat of his heart beneath my fingertips. He lifted his lips from mine and looked down at me. âPromise me something, whatever happens â¦'
âAnything,' I said quickly.
âGet a phone and keep in touch.' He smiled.
My face split into a huge grin. âI promise. No matter what happens, I'll keep in touch.'
I bought a phone the next day. I've been using it to text Frankie and I call Nate every night, even though I see him during the day. He takes me out on his bike and we soar through the countryside like free birds in flight.
I'm leaving Dudley Hall. I knew I couldn't stay here forever. I have to go back to school. I know it's where I need to be. Not because of what's waiting for me there. I don't have scores to settle or ghosts to put to rest. But I need some kind of education if I'm going to be a writer. Aunt Meredith says I can still visit Dudley Hall in my school holidays. I can come back and visit Nate and Toby and have my own room up in the attic when I stay. Not long ago the idea of sleeping up there would have horrified me, but not any more. I can't feel her up there now. She's moved on.
I was packing up my room at Dudley Hall when a soft breeze blew through the window. I found myself walking towards the open curtains and gazed down on to the grounds below.
She was standing there, underneath the weeping willow, basking in the sunlight. The grey girl was no longer grey; she seemed to glimmer like diamonds as she tilted her head back to the sky.
I smiled to myself as I watched her fade away into the hazy sunshine. She is finally free.
Tilly just had to find a way to take centre stage, to tell her story. Fiona, Nell, Toby and I were all bit players really. â
All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players,'
I whispered through the open window.
I wonder what other parts I'll play during my lifetime. I wonder what's waiting for me on the road ahead. And when I die I wonder if there will be something that binds me to the earth, preventing me from moving on. I hope not. I hope for peace. I wonder if the memory of me will haunt others, I wonder if there will be anyone who will miss me so much they won't be able to let me go.
I wish I could say that I wasn't afraid of ghosts. I wish I was immune to the coldness they cast on a room, or the way they can destroy your life and make you question your own sanity. Whether you can see them or not, ghosts are real, as real as the earth and sky and everything in between.
I'm always sad when a story ends. But another one is just beginning. Each day is like turning over the Death card in a tarot pack â the end of one tale but the beginning of the next. That's all life really is, a series of stories woven together by the people we meet and the lives that we touch. I'm the protagonist in every one of my stories, and my life is mine to live as I choose. And as Nate's bike pulls away from Dudley Hall, taking me to the train station, my bag strapped to my back, I look at the road ahead and feel a rush of happiness. I don't know what the future holds, but I know who I am. I know what I believe. I believe in ghosts and I believe in love. I believe in magic and I believe in forever. I believe in forgiveness and new beginnings, I believe in truth and friendship. And I believe in myself, no matter what.
Eleanor Hawken spent her teenage years at boarding school, where there was many an opportunity to tell ghost stories by torchlight. After leaving school she went to university and gained a degree in Philosophy. She then worked as a children's book editor in Bath, where she was also part of the team that established the Bath Festival of Children's Literature. Eleanor devised the fiction series WILL SOLVIT and has written books under the pseudonym Zed Storm. In 2010 Eleanor left England and travelled the length of the Americas with a laptop; it was during this time that she wrote THE BLUE LADY, her first book for Hot Key Books and the companion novel to THE GREY GIRL
. Eleanor has also written the SAMMY FERAL'S DIARIES OF WEIRD series for younger readers. Eleanor now lives in north London with her husband.
Twitter @ehawken
www.eleanorhawken.com